stars, and mars, in a black sky
winter is waiting in this morning
this slackening, this waning
silver hairs on the black sweaterone grey lash on the eyeglass lens

Noisy garden – a crow calls, twice – suddenly, silence: all the birds take cover. What did the crow say?

A whole flock of sparrows, dozens, waiting their turn at the fountain. I twitch my arm and they all lift up, together –
some days
everything I look at
is beautiful

October

This morning a kestral took a sparrow from my garden, right in front of me. It flew to the ash tree,little broken sparrow in its talons – then flew into the lilac tree and looked down at me, as if in challenge . . .

opening into that bareness that is winter
netting gold leaves from the pond
waxwings in the mountain ash
morning walk –
through the sleet
an eagle's cry

November

Jay Leno says new research shows that poets live short lives: we die at sixty, having learned we have no marketable skills.

December

Huge winds – they seem even louder now that I’ve fixed the bedroom windows so they don’t bang. Wind like a big, angry animal, throwing itself through the courtyard again & again. I get up & put on socks.

Woke this morning to a day that reminds me I do like this time of year, despite the cold, the ice, the aches. That diffuse winter light, reflecting off new snow – sometimes I feel companioned by the world.

so difficult, this life – & as I bend to put this book away – the call of a night bird